Clank! Clank! Clank!
The usual clang of metal on metal every morning. Who would've thought two pipes smashing together could make such an effective alarm? Cheap, too. Why waste coin on the real thing? This is just a slave camp, after all.
The girl groaned. That relentless banging outside her tent always made getting up harder than it had to be. She couldn't even muffle the noise with a pillow—because they never gave her one. Kaelen's "bed" was hardly a bed: just two boxes shoved together, draped with a ragged sheet of torn cloth. Most nights she barely felt it beneath her, but maybe the thought counted for something. The makeshift bed wasn't long enough to fit her; her feet always dangled over the edge as she slept.
Still… it was better than the cold dirt.
"Come on, get up, Kaelen. There's work to be done. No work means no food… and I hate going to bed hungry."
She had repeated that same line to herself every morning for the past two years.
Kaelen lingered a moment before dressing. For a slave, she liked to think she had quite the wardrobe: two scraps of white cloth that faintly resembled a shirt, and a pair of ragged tan pants—both adorned with an exquisite pattern of blood, dirt, and mud. After donning her daily attire, she paused to look in the mirror.
Strange, really. Out of all the things they withheld, the only possessions of value they ever gave the slaves were these damned mirrors. They looked expensive—at least to her—small enough to fit in a pocket, framed in black and gold, etched with markings in a language she didn't even recognize.
Kaelen's reflection stared back: a black, tangled mess of hair that had grown down to her shoulders, shadows carved beneath her cold, dark eyes. Sleep was rare. The guards saw to that—working them until late into the night, then dragging them up again at dawn.
"I'm not even sure why I still look at this stupid thing. All it does is piss me off."
Kaelen set the mirror down on a nearby box that passed for a nightstand, slipped on her worn leather shoes, and finally stepped outside. The world greeted her with two things.
First was the heat. Scorching, merciless heat. It was midsummer in this region, and summers here were brutal—often deadly. Under the weight of this sun, it wasn't hard to collapse, and in the conditions of a slave camp, death came even easier.
The second was the ugly mug of the guard captain. He looked like he could keel over at any moment—yet still had the strength to crush the life out of a full-grown bison. A full grey beard framed his face, while his bald head gleamed, polished by the sun itself. His body, however, betrayed none of his age: tall, towering at nearly six and a half feet, broad and unnervingly muscular. The black armor he wore set him apart from the common guards in their plain white. A heavy black greatsword rested across his back, partly hidden by the cape draped over his shoulders. Etched in gold upon the cape was an insignia: a man and woman, two knights straining together to hold aloft a massive sword.
It was the mark of Nation Lukros—the last bastion of the Human Domain. One fragment among countless others, carved from the shattered landmasses of this jigsaw planet.
The Captain was standing at the center of the camp. Elevated atop a wooden platform. And always, always, he wore the same expression—disgust. As if he were trudging through a pool of shit. Only in this case, the camp was the pool… and the shit was them, the slaves. Other slaves began drifting toward the platform at the center of the camp.
Kaelen wasn't spared the stares that followed her every step. She already stood out enough on her own—tall to the point of awkwardness, her tangled, matted hair starting to resemble animal fur. But it wasn't her height or her ragged state that set her apart.
It was her race. Kaelen was human—trapped in a slave camp meant for demi-humans. Naturally, her fellow captives either distrusted her, were confused by her presence, or outright despised her. In truth, she didn't feel like she belonged at all.
'I can't really blame them. Humanity made their lives hell, and yet here I am: a human eating their rations, sleeping in their tents, living among their people. If you can even call this living in a shithole like this.'
After some time, every slave in the camp circled around the wooden platform. This was a daily event which took place for three reasons. First was to assign jobs for the day. Jobs assigned varied but usually were dependent on the race you were.
Saurathians, for example, were a race of humanoids with draconic features: scale-like skin of various colors, bulky tails, horns, and all. As if they walked right out of a fairy tale. Saurathians possessed much more durable skin and greater strength than most other races, so their assigned work always revolved around heavy lifting.
Another case would be the Ferriths. This race of demi-humans has no flesh or bone, their essence born of an incorporeal origin. They animate inanimate clothes or armor and use that as their form. Most are seen wearing masks, hoods, or helmets to conceal their face—or lack thereof. Because they have no conventional bodies, they don't require lungs, which grants them nearly endless stamina. As a result, they are often assigned tasks such as transporting smaller materials from the mines or pulling carts through the camp.
For a human like Kaelen, however, things varied greatly. As a human, she was neither especially good nor especially bad at anything, so her jobs were simply whatever the guards felt like assigning her that day.
The second reason for the morning gathering was always the strangest. Each day, the Captain would call forth five to ten slaves by their numbers—numbers that had been hot-branded onto their bodies so they would never forget them. After being called, those slaves were escorted out by the guards, never to be seen again. Where they went or why, nobody knew, nor did they dare to ask.
As for the third reason—well, that was about to be put on display as the head captain began to speak.
"Good morning, filthy mix-breeds. Yet another beautiful day within the great human domain, wouldn't you all agree?" His voice was everything one would expect from a captain: commanding, oppressive, and dripping with arrogance.
"As usual, we will conduct our morning routine of selections and job assignments. But first, there is something I would like all of you to see."
He raised a hand toward the two guards standing at the edge of the crowd. The slaves instinctively shifted aside, creating a path as the guards approached the platform, each dragging along two chained prisoners. The first was unmistakably a Saurathian—his scaly red tail scraped against the dirt, black claws curling in resistance, and a pair of curved obsidian horns jutted from his skull. The other was a woman of the Sidrian race, a people marked by their aquatic traits. Her skin was a pale blue, with gills carved into the sides of her neck, and scars where her fins had once been at her elbows—likely cut away to prevent any water-born escape.
Both were yanked mercilessly across the dirt, their wrists raw and bleeding beneath the chains that bound them. When the guards forced them onto the platform and shoved them into a kneel before the crowd, the extent of their torment became horrifyingly clear.
The Saurathian was missing three fingers. Whole patches of his scales had been peeled away, leaving raw flesh exposed, and one of his eyes was nothing more than a ruined socket. The Sidrian fared no better: her arm hung by shreds of flesh and splintered bone, bruises bloomed in sickly shades of blue across her body, and half her face was seared into a grotesque mask of charred skin.
The sight was horrifying, some slaves did their best not to throw up what little they had eaten. Others were not so lucky. It was clear what had transpired, and everyone knew. They had attempted to escape, and paid the price.
"Last night, we found this lizard and fish attempting to escape the compound. In all honesty they managed to get pretty far, I must admit! They had my men running all throughout the forest looking for 'em." The captain let out a deep laugh as if someone told him the greatest joke in the world. The crowd remained silent.
The captain spoke again, wiping the tears from his eyes. "As you all know, we take offenses like this very seriously. Any filth that attempts to leave this camp will be tortured throughout the night, and..."
In one swift moment, he drew the greatsword from his back and swung it across the wooden platform. Bisecting both prisoners from the waist up that were kneeling side by side. Their bodies hit the wood instantly, blood and intestines pouring out from their waistline.
"...Executed by the morning."
...
I watched as blood coated the old wooden platform, intestines spilling across the splintered boards. It wasn't the first time I'd witnessed such graphic violence in this hellhole. Every time I saw acts like these, the same all-encompassing feeling took hold.
Pity.
For two years I've watched the slaughter and abuse of demi-humans—two hellish years of seeing men, women, and children beaten, tortured, and killed in the most vile ways imaginable. And after every harrowing spectacle, that feeling returns, unshaken, unending.
Pity.
And still, I do nothing but sit here and wallow in it. It's not as if I have the strength to do anything else. I can't even say anything else. In the beginning, I tried to console the grieving slaves closest to the victims, but I learned very quickly it wasn't wanted. Why would they accept comfort from the very species that took everything from them? Would a deer seek a bear's consolation after watching another bear tear its fawn apart? It would not. I wouldn't either.
After wiping his blade on a strip of cloth torn from the Saurathian's corpse, the Captain spoke once more.
"Now that we've gotten that mess cleared up, let's begin our daily morning routine. As always, there's plenty of work to do. We'll start with selections—if you hear your number, step up to the platform."
The Captain called seven numbers: 606, 572, 346, 453, 598, 202, and 616—three Saurathians, two Ferriths, and two Sidrians. There always seemed to be more Saurathians taken than other demi-humans, with Sidrians called the least. Whatever the selections were for, Lukros seemed to favor Saurathians' durability and strength more than anything else. The chosen stepped onto the platform, trying to avoid the bodies still lying in the pool of blue and red blood—and failing.
"Quite the selection we have here today!" the Captain bellowed, stroking his beard. If I had to guess, he was already thinking about whatever dreadful shit awaited them in the next few hours. He paced around the line, inspecting each slave from head to toe—an everyday ritual meant to prove the chosen were "fit." To me, it never seemed to matter. Injuries, sickness, bruises, blemishes—whoever was selected was taken anyway. I've even seen slaves chosen with one or two limbs missing, dragged away all the same. Age didn't matter either. Old or young, Lukros didn't give a shit.
Luckily, if that even is the right word given the circumstances, no children were chosen today. Those days were always the worst.
"Now that the selection has been completed, make your way to the southern gate to receive your tasks for the day," the captain said, turning away and hand-signaling for the group of slaves to follow suit. Reluctantly, they did, with no resistance. The crowd, myself included, began moving towards the southern gate. A few demi-humans stayed back to watch the selected being escorted out—likely friends and family, as some were crying and yelling out to them—final goodbyes and pleas to take their place, if I had to guess. I couldn't really understand, as each of them was yelling in their native language. After a few moments, I turned and continued to get my tasks. The faster I got my tasks, the faster I could finish. The faster I finished, the sooner I could return to my tent and be left alone. The only sanctuary I had to shield myself from the constant loathing glares.
In the next moment, however, it seemed there was one more announcement to be made. One of the guards ran over to the head captain as he escorted the selected to the northern gate. He looked quite scrawny for a slave enforcer; his armor wasn't even his size. Scrawny handed the captain a folded envelope, panting and sweating all over as if he'd run a mile just to get here in time. As the captain opened it, he grinned—no, "grinned" wouldn't be the word I would use. It was a smile filled with glee and excitement, but at the same time vile and cruel—like a kid getting exactly what he wanted for his birthday, but said gift was some fucked-up torture device.
"Wait for just a moment mix-breeds! I just received some very exciting news! One of these poor souls gets to stay. It seems someone else has volunteered to take their place. Well, 'volunteered' wouldn't be the right answer. Voluntold, I guess. 453, you may head to the gate to receive your task." It was a Sidrian male, unsurprising considering their low collection rate. These recalls are uncommon but happen enough that everyone here isn't surprised. They likely decided to pick another Saurathian, which ninety percent of the time that was the reason.
The captain stepped forward towards the crowd of slaves.
"Today is a very special day for all of you, because I know how badly you've wanted to get rid of that infestation problem."
His pace didn't slow as the slaves stepped aside to make way for his towering figure.
"I've heard your abhorrent whispers—how you hate sleeping, knowing it curls up right beside you."
He moved toward the back of the crowd, steps finally easing.
"The vile thing eating your food, nesting in one of your tents, crawling around your workplace."
No. Please, no.
"Rest easy now, mix-breeds. Today is the day you're free of this vermin."
No. Not yet. I can't go yet. I still haven't found her.
He stopped at the rear, his height looming over the puny rat.
"Slave number 777—lucky number for a lucky occasion."
I wanted to tear off my right hand, the one with my hot-branded number.
He began to circle me, just like he'd circled the others—only this time without the curious gaze. That goddamn gleeful smile was back, etched across his face. He was enjoying every second.
No one spoke. No whispers. Just silence. The air itself felt heavy with animosity—all of it aimed at the single, disgusting, vile rat that had been feeding off their rations, nesting in their tents, crawling through their workspace. My heart dropped into my stomach. I could barely breathe. I couldn't speak. I didn't dare try. Nothing I said could make this better, and any word would only sharpen the oppressive stares pressing in from all sides. I used every shred of willpower not to cry. It felt like any movement might get me killed by the sheer weight of their hatred.
Worse than the silence was the dread—the simple, inevitable truth tearing me apart, stripping away every goal, dream, and hope I'd clung to for the past two years.
Today is the day I lose my gift.
Today is the day I die.